On Transport

If you are at all concerned about my safety here in Mauritania, perhaps you should skip this entry :)

Traveling is always an experience in country, and it looks like I'll be doing my fair share of it over the next two years. Every three or four weeks I travel into Atar, my regional capital, to check e-mail, get mail, post on my blog, and re-stock foodstuffs not available in Chinguetti. This trip is marked by gorgeous scenery (see pictures above), but it still makes me a little nervous every time I hop into the back of a pickup truck (called a “taxi brousse” or “bush taxi”) already crammed full to begin the two-hour ride. Yes, I could sit in the cab, but I save $3 each way by sitting in the back. Totally worth it. Plus, there's more head room.

The first and last thirds of the journey we travel at full speed through sandy Saharan plains. I'm sure I've ingested gallons of sand already, but as a friend said, “At least [my] skin gets exfoliated.” The middle third of the journey though is my favorite. Chinguetti is on a huge plateau, so to go from Atar to Chinguetti I travel up the side of some gorgeous mountains. Precariously perched in the back of the truck, which slows down to about 10 mph for this leg of the trek, I sit and soak up the beautiful scenery. This is another reason I love sitting in the back of the truck: the rock ledges feel close enough to reach out and touch (sometimes they are), the steep cliff to my right gives me a slight sense of vertigo, and the multi-colored rocks are different than anything I've ever seen before.

Mauritanians look at me a little weird when I hop in the truck's bed. That's the budget way of traveling; as an American they tell me I surely have tons of money. It provides a good chance to explain Peace Corps and dispel rumors about Americans all driving around in Hummers and owning mansions. Even after explaining Peace Corps I still receive many confused glances. “Who is this kid?” They seem to be wondering. Sometimes they follow with questions that circumnavigate the question, “Are you a spy?” (“The United Stated government pays for you to come and live here, they purchase all your food, they pay for your language instruction, and you really expect to be called a 'volunteer'?” [Touché.] )

At the end of the day I arrive at my destination safe and sound, though typically quite dirty. It's fun! C'est la vie dans la Mauritanie... especially when all you've got is “bush taxi.”

Fasting/Ramadan

I've received several questions about “Ramadan” and “fasting” and what that entails for me since I am not a Muslim, so I'm briefly going to explain the situation here.

The holy month of Ramadan just ended, and during this month Muslims were fasting all day, every day. Fasting, though, doesn't just mean “not eating.” It means not drinking any liquids – yes, in the Sahara – and according to my host family not using sunscreen, chapstick, lotion or shampoo. You cannot use anything but regular unscented soap and water to wash your skin before you pray. It's intense. Then, at sundown, the call to prayer sounds, and my family breaks fast by eating fresh dates and drinking zrig (a combo of sugar, water, and milk), inshe (basically gravy, though not meat-based; in my opinion it's a little heavy after a whole day of not eating or drinking anything, but it contrasts the sweetness of the dates nicely), and bissap juice (basically kool-aid, but a little less artificial tasting. It kind of tastes like slightly fruity sugar cane juice). Then they pray for 40 minutes. This is followed by “snack”, which consists of some sort of starch and a little meat, and if you're lucky some veggies. Then they pray again. Finally they socialize for a few hours until “dinner”, which is almost always just plain coucous, though sometimes it has goat intestines on top. After dinner they sleep for a few hours and wake up either once or twice during the night to eat more. Often these meals involve zrig, rice, or more couscous.

I originally planned to fast. I thought it would be a good way to show my “cultural solidarity”or something like that, as well as a general respect for Islam. I also figured that it the evening festivities would be a good chance to connect with families and to practice French and Hassaniye during my first month at site. However, I planned to drink water during the day. I knew it that meant I wasn't technically fasting, but I couldn't imagine not doing so. My body's already adjusting enough in this new environment, and I didn't want to cause it any unnecessary stress by dehydrating myself. I also didn't know at the beginning that one who is fasting isn't allowed to use sunscreen – and my fair-skinned self certainly uses sunscreen. So when I got to Chinguetti and told my family my plan, they basically said, “But that's not fasting.” It wasn't like, “Oh, you're trying to get to know our culture. Thanks for 'kind-of' fasting.” It makes sense, really. I mean, if you can't drink water all day in the Sahara, and some new American kid comes along and is like, “I'm going to fast too – except I'm not going to do the hardest part,” I could see getting a little irked. I proceeded anyway with my original plan, clandestinely consuming water in the privacy of my own compound. Then after a few days I got really sick, and my body wasn't really liking waking up every couple hours all night, and I was running every other morning meaning I was in need of even more calories, so I said, “Screw 'kind-of' fasting.”

I still didn't eat or drink at all in public, obviously (except for the minor incident of the tomato paste incident as detailed below), but since then I've enjoyed figuring out the market and discovering the limits of my simple kitchen. I now make a mean Brazilian rice and beans, and a pretty decent mac and cheese - an impressive feat without cheese or refrigeration. Who knew that if you heated condensed milk and added a splash of vinegar, the result would rival Kraft?